


Shattered Elegy

by OxfordOctopus



Series: OxfordOctopus' Snips'n'Snaps [4]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Danny Hebert Dies, Depression, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Imprisonment, Self-Destruction, Taylor has Shatterbird's Powers, The Birdcage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 04:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20002480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OxfordOctopus/pseuds/OxfordOctopus
Summary: Danny dies.The world is slantwise, wrong, an impression of what it was once.Surely if Taylor keeps repeating her day-to-day, surely everything will become whole again.Right?





	1. "Good Morning, Dad."

**Author's Note:**

> (CW): Death of a loved one, extreme grief, and intense depression.

Danny Hebert’s death had been a clinical thing. He was not killed by a car, not like her mother. He hadn’t been killed by the gangs, who still, even now, clawed at the place where the union used to be. He was not killed by any tragedy of improper building safety, and neither had he been killed as a result of any environmental disaster or the hulking, violent things that were all but representations thereof.

He had died in his sleep – overworked, they said. They had spoken little that morning, limp smiles shared over a lukewarm breakfast neither of them could stomach. He had been fine, _cheery_ , even; something about a potential deal for his dockworkers. She had gone to school, weathered the storm that being at Winslow involved, and returned before he had, passing the time by using what little power the internet provided her. She hadn’t even noticed him when he came back in, didn’t even bother to fucking _greet_ him, but the afternoon had continued into evening. They shared leftovers, two day old mac-and-cheese that she had burned the bottom out of. He had said goodnight, she hadn’t responded.

When she woke up the next morning, she had continued their routine. But when five turned to six, and six to seven, dread settled in. When she crept up into his room, both curious and afraid on what had held him up, she had found him. He was still, as still as what was left of her mother had been. No breathing, no white noise, no throaty hum of his snore. Inert, cold, dead.

The coroner had assured her he had passed without pain, as though it made it any better.

The funeral was basic but packed. Taylor had tried to find comfort in it, but couldn’t. Dockworkers cried, everyone cried, but she couldn’t. She wondered if they blamed her for it. Maybe.

Kurt and Lacey had tried, initially. Her father’s death had netted her enough to remain in the house until graduation, the small payout for the death of her sole guardian granting her just enough to survive on the day-to-day. Dockworkers pitched in, assuring her a future she didn’t deserve, but she never told them that, couldn’t bring herself to. School was the same, Emma had better words to hurt her with, but they felt numb and hollow.

Ritual had become the one thing she valued, the one thing that she could slip into and just _stop thinking_ about. It was pointless, Taylor knew, but the rote practice of her schedule - morning, breakfast, school, dinner, sleep, repeat - kept her together and kept the thoughts away. Kurt and Lacey distanced themselves, eventually, she imagined they found her disgusting or disturbing. She felt the same way.

She could barely understand the words her teacher spoke, wrote fewer notes, and had to make up for it later, referencing the work they gave her when she got back home and looking up self-study guides. Her grades had gone up, but if only because ‘the Trio’ had turned into ‘the Duo’ and took Madison as their next victim instead of herself; she had become too boring, too _broken_ to be enjoyable for them.

But still, she’d persisted. She’d still wake up in the morning, let the reality sink in, let the fact that the house had started to smell more of her than it did her dad - a man who had smelled of paper, lead and grease; uncanny, but fundamentally _dad_ -, let the fact that he wasn’t around, let it all settle in. She’d pull the blankets away, let it collect at the foot of her bed, let her feet dip into the mess of wrappers and trash that she found difficult to move or clean. She’d stumble down the stairs, breath held, tight and heavy in her throat, more choking with every new day she woke up to.

She’d arrive in the kitchen, pull free his cup, a crude smear of “#1 DAD” written across it in fat, messy letters; a memento from back when they had been a family, mother included. She’d make herself coffee, a thing she hated but could no longer taste, and swallow deeply, letting the scalding burn ruin her tongue and her throat, the pain justified and welcomed. Then, once the cup had been drained, she would smile, a smile that grew harder to replicate, that felt more hollow with each passing day.

“Good morning, Dad.” She’d say, having said it a hundred thousand times before, even before her mother had died, even before days had become more of a chore than anything else.

Then the cycle would continue.

Day after day after day after day after day after day.

Weeks blended together, incomprehensible, as fundamentally similar as hours in a day had been. Winter spilled into spring, then into summer, the promise of emancipation brought up by Kurt and Lacey, her guardians, who couldn’t bring themselves to remain near her. They wanted her to get therapy, she had said nothing. Neither did they, after that.

It got harder each day. It wasn’t supposed to. Everything said she would feel _better_ with time, that the grief would fade, that it would become easier to hold back the rattling in her chest, in her eyes and in everything in between. They _promised_ , everyone promised, _but nobody ever kept them_. Dad promised her she’d never be alone, Kurt and Lacey promised she’d never be alone, people had promised the grief would pass, the coroner had promised her dad hadn’t hurt but _she knew better_.

The mug slid from her hands.

The scream that should have come when her dad had died, when his funeral had happened, when Kurt and Lacey distanced themselves, when Emma used her father’s death to hurt her, when the smiles became too difficult and even the _fucking_ muted neutral expression she wore was a chore to keep, it all _came_. It was anguished, a broken keening in her ears that spread out, pushing on the boundaries of her awareness and then forcing everything else to _scream_ with her.

The mug shattered, and all glass in a quarter mile with it.


	2. Two Birds in a Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial is a bust, the judgement is easy. 
> 
> To the birdcage she goes, feeling in her heart of hearts that she deserves it.

Everything was noise.

The riot of silence was superimposed by a staccato of electricity. The people, the smiles, _fake fake fake fake_ , voices breaking against something, against the _thing_ they’d strapped to her neck and made every noise broken and unfinished, stuttering her own. The court, the jury, the impassioned speeches, the claims and comparisons and _so much fucking noise_ , lights sounds places things; everything was turned inward like knives.

The scream of applause, the demands to know. A birdcage, creaking, jarring back and forth in the wind, jostling her with each unexpected buck.

A birdcage?

A _Birdcage._

Taylor woke, her breath hissing in past tense teeth as every fibre of her being poised to _scream_.

There was a prick of pain, of something hot taking hold of her spine, of _noise noise noise_ that was disturbingly familiar, making her lose grip on the swell of energy and _need_ in her throat. An electronic _click_. “Codename Dirge, please cease any attempt at verbal communication. This is your final warning.”

Her heart babbled in her chest, a frantic drumbeat as hot pain spread out past its origin point, leaving behind a prickly numbness that refused to leave. Her jaw lost feeling and her tongue felt heavy, she wanted to swallow but not even that was given to her. The collar, blinking an angry blood red, _clicked_ once again, switching to a yellow that flashed with less frequency.

It took a moment to steady her breath, to acclimate to the cottony feeling in her throat. The noise, the prickling, rolling, _broken jagged noise_ that made everything so much more difficult, receded. It was still there, still thrumming and disrupting the sound of her breathing, but it was distant enough to think, to give her space to breathe and not choke on her own fear.

The numbness at her back began to fade. Taylor breathed out, letting her muscles relax with it.

 _Where?_ Her surroundings weren’t familiar, but the fragmented memories of the trial had already wormed their way into the back of her skull. The _Birdcage_ , her destination, and the room her vehicle.

She had a neighbor, which she was surprised to see she missed. The other woman was awake, staring fearfully towards her, the girl’s face covered up by a muzzle but no less emotive for it. Yellow-green hair was matted to her face, drenched with sweat, and a wreath of feathers crowned it all. An impression of a memory came to her – something about a bird. She pushed it aside for now.

An attempt to move her arm made it clear that the collar wasn’t the end of her situation. Containment foam, an off-yellow paste, smothered her up to her rib cage, both of her arms pulled uncomfortably tight and down towards her belly, embedded up to her elbows. The person across from her, at a second glance, fared worse; buried up to the large, bomb-collar-like fixture on her neck, each flash of its pronounced LED light making the green haired girl flinch as though she’d been kicked.

The woman could have been anyone, she could have been put away for _anything_. It was the _Birdcage_ , the place they stored the worst of the worst, people like _Glaistig Uaine_ , and yet Taylor couldn’t repress the feeling of kinship that came to her. It was a fragile feeling, tenuous and tortured. Neither trust nor empathy had come to her easily after she’d first _screamed_ , but there it was, the strongest thing she’d felt in a year, maybe even longer.

The other girl’s eyes clouded, prickling with fat tears. She felt the urge to reach out, to try and console her, to offer her little nothings that nobody else had extended to her. She might’ve, too, if not for the containment foam and collar around her neck.

But she couldn’t. She could only watch and stare in stark silence, the noise in her ears finally receding in full, defined by another _click_ and the infrequent blink of a green indicator instead of a yellow one. The other girl was soundless as she cried, her shoulders rising up and her head tilting down, poised as though she wanted to hide away deep inside of herself.

Probing out with her power, Taylor restrained a horrified shudder as it ‘pinged’ against the walls around her. Not even the prison they’d kept in her had been able to fully contain the nudges she extended out – it’d been the way she kept sane between mandatory psychiatric visits and the occasions they let her use glass, apparently fearing she’d explode without it. There was nothing in the room that she could control, not even in their mutual collars; no ceramics, no glass, no sand, even the walls themselves were unusually soundproofed, rejecting the brush of vibrations she’d come to understand defined her more detailed control over nearby objects.

All of a sudden, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of her future pressing down on her. The room, concrete walls, floor, ceiling, that one lamp, the drone of _noise_ that broke her focus; they felt so much more homely when compared to the sleek steel container, broken up by two benches and two piles of containment foam. It was nauseating, but that was to be expected; they wouldn’t abandon the collar without something else that could stop her.

The other girl, at some point during her exploration of the vehicle, had stopped crying and now just… _slumped_. Defeated, broken. It was difficult to blame her; crying was tiring, it wore you out, and a visit to a prison you'd never _ever_ leave would normally do that on its own to begin with.

It was only the van drawing to a stop that jarred the other girl’s attention away from anything but the floor, her green hair flying wild as she glanced from side to side, so fearful, so _desperate._

The walls fell away, somewhat literally. The rush of sensation was almost overpowering, the urge to begin keening, to extend her range out and beyond herself, nearly overwhelmed her but with the threat of another injection she kept it down. Crying for later, always for later.

Whatever she had assumed the entrance to the Birdcage might be, this was not it. It was massive, unfathomably so, a perfectly level concrete floor and a roof twenty or so feet above. It extended on for what seemed like forever, and briefly - with quite a bit of melancholy - she remembered her mother finally letting her read the Divine Comedy and its depiction of Cocytus, a vast, frozen lake with no end or beginning, simply existing in all places at all times.

A face appeared on a monitor in her peripheral vision, drawing her gaze. The woman had no clear ethnicity and wore a messy bun tied up and behind a head of loose, straight black hair. Her eyes were somewhat hooded, with bags beneath them. The expression she wore was anything but happy, but it looked more restrained than it did upset. It reminded Taylor of a clenched fist, for some reason.

“Prisoner 600, codename Dirge. PRT powers designation Shaker 9 asterisk, vitrified materials, sound and silica only, Mover 4. Recommended protocols were properly carried out with a total absence of any and all materials associated with their powers, alongside the transport vehicle being modified for total insulation from sound. Chance of escape from the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center is .000491% with potential gross deviation in the event of introduction of contraband material or a matter producer. With monitoring this chance drops to .000014%. Will be processed to cell block E.” The woman’s eyes slid from her, pausing just for a fraction of a fraction of a second, the severe look slipping just a touch.

“Prisoner 601, codename Canary. PRT powers designation Master 8. Recommended protocols were properly carried out, with provided restraints and no human personnel being brought within three hundred yards of said individual’s position. Chance of escape from the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center is .000025% with no gross deviations. Will be processed to cell block E as well.” The woman on the monitor deflated, finally glancing away from the two of them and looking as though she was fiddling with something just out of sight.

“I followed both of your trials.” The woman sounded so _very_ tired. “For different though expectedly _similar_ reasonings, neither of you managed to win them. I’m very sorry about that, I wish I could have done more.”

Claws extended out from a place Taylor couldn't see, wrapping almost comfortingly around the glob of hardened containment foam and pulling her up. The motion was unnerving, but eventually she found herself once again on the floor, though this time on a marked metal platform. The monitor swivelled to look at them once Canary was placed down beside her.

“I’ve managed to pull some strings and get you two put together in the same cell, however. It is a small comfort, I know, but your cell block leader is Lustrum – Dirge has family associated with her, but she will protect the both of you regardless. Lustrum is something of a misandrist, but has your best goals in mind. If you can’t agree with her political opinions, fake it. It will be worth it in the long run.”

The metal platform shuddered and _creaked_. The ground began to slowly drop.

“As you are lowered down, the containment foam will be exposed to a counteragent and your restraints will be turned off and unlocked. Do not attempt to flee or climb up the shaft, as you will almost certainly be killed as a result.” They’d gone far down enough that the hole above began to close, two thick metal wedges slowly approaching one-another. The darkness was disquieting. “There is a limited amount of oxygen available, only enough for you to reach the ground floor, and any attempt at stopping the lift will have comparable results to trying to jump out of it.” Her voice still, however, played loudly; broadcasted from someplace else.

A spray of chemicals overcame Taylor’s nose, smelling a bit like burnt leather. She felt the foam slacken and the whirring at her neck slowly begin to grow quiet. A glance towards Canary showed much the same, the other girl wriggling and writhing in her bonds in an attempt to escape them, probably if only to get out of them quicker – or so she hoped.

“Now, over the next thirty-four seconds I will explain to you what will happen and how we can respond to any perceived problems within the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center.” The collar clicked once and then fell away, cracking against the floor. She couldn’t help the whimper of relief that left her lips, her throat feeling so sore, so _unused_. “The Baumann Parahuman Containment Center is…”

The wedges shut entirely, leaving only the sound of that tinny voice.

There was no escape. The kindly woman said so, after all.

\- ※ -

“It’s okay now.” Lustrum was not what Taylor had expected, not really. She’d applied the images of prominent second wave feminists - people who buzzed their hair short and wore themselves in a very butch sort of way - to her internal image, but that’d proven to be misguided. Comparatively, Lustrum was matronly, a bit incensed, but nonetheless kind.

Her hug was nice, too. She had to quiet the noises her throat made - crying always made her power come easier, quicker, she couldn’t risk it - but she wasn’t about to lie and say her eyes didn’t leave behind smudges the first moment they were in private and Lustrum had offered her a hug. She’d apparently seen the trial too, worried herself sick about Annette’s only kid being so touch starved she looked like she might go insane.

She personally had other thoughts, like wondering how exactly her mom had gone from _Anne Ballbuster_ to _Annette, professor_ , but that could wait until later – it wasn’t even the end of her first day yet.

\- ※ -

“A year, really?” Canary - Paige - passed forward her hand. King high, not bad.

Taylor pitched her shoulders up into a shrug. “It was part of the reason I ended up in here – they were torn on whether or not to put me to trial as a minor, and it was only a year until I hit 18. My event apparently got your trial delayed; they wanted to see how the second closest comparison to the Simurgh might be judged.” A hum in her throat drew the crude, stitched-together cup to her front, made from hundreds of pieces of multicolored glass. She reached out to take it, dipping it back to let the little bit of water left wet her throat. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

Canary didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown either. That was as much a victory as anything else could be.

“It’s not really a problem,” Canary assured.

She laid out aces three-of-a-kind. Canary looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. “...Nevermind, it _is_ a problem.”

\- ※ -

It was night, supposedly. Taylor couldn’t tell most of the time, only really by the constant shift of channels. People built clocks in Block E, put them up and around so the more unstable girls wouldn’t go insane, but she personally didn't see the point. The presence of glass, of anything that she could brush with her focus, was nice, however, so who was she to complain.

She wasn’t here for the clocks, though.

Swallowing thickly, she stepped through the boundary and into her cell. They’d split it pretty evenly, Canary picking up art as a pastime and even managing to find someone who did faithful recreations of posters. None of them were hers, but she’d said they were singers who’d helped her find her way before it all went south. Comparatively, her own side was empty; devoid of the glass she kept on hand as protection and enjoyment. She might have to fix that, some day.

Paige was busying herself with what looked like a book, thumbing through it slowly.

“Hey, Paige?” Taylor tried to keep the emotion out of her voice.

The other girl glanced up from her book, her brows worried together. “Yeah?”

“Could we maybe hang out? Like, um. Together?”

Paige blinked slowly, glanced at her book, and then shrugged.

“Sure, I can’t see why not.”

\- ※ -

There was no alarm or clock, but Taylor still knew she’d woken up early again. Paige was tucked away at her side, nose flush against her skin, finding comfort on what she knew was a bony rib cage but was something that hadn’t stopped her girlfriend the past ten or twenty times they’d slept like this.

Grimacing, she nudged her power towards her glasses, or at least what was left of them. They pulled together against her face, just big enough to cover each eye, and she spared the room a glance. It was quiet, so it was definitely early morning, which meant her meeting with Lustrum - _something about an art piece? Paige wanted to be involved with it_ \- wouldn’t be for a while.

Running her hand through the befeathered crown of Paige’s head, she nudged her girlfriend ever-so-slightly off, placing her against the pillow instead of her side.

She had work, but it could wait – she had some bird watching to do.

\- ※ -

“...He’s actually dead.” That was Paige’s voice; the roaring cheers of triumph almost smothered it.

Taylor nodded absently, turning to look at her soot-flecked girlfriend. “Would’ve loved not to have been mind controlled to achieve it,” she admitted quietly. “But they sure did it, Scion’s dead.”

“London’s gone, along with the rest of the UK,” Paige said, as though it was a revelation.

A shrug, much like the one she’d given Paige all those years ago, carried her shoulders up. “They’ll build another one. They have a habit of doing that.”

There was a snort of laughter. Taylor smiled.

Things got better.

Maybe they hadn’t lied, really.


End file.
